Natural Selection
by TheUniquePenName
Summary: "Natural selection has a hand in everything," they'd tell me after I would be punished, "We saved you from death. If you continue to act foolish then death will naturally come to you." Rated for: Extreme Violence, Coarse Language, Gore, and perhaps slight Sexual Suggestions. It can be considered as complete, but I'll add more if you all wish.
1. The Voice

I tried being patient with them. Really I tried. But, they left me no choice honestly. All I wanted was to be accepted. To be loved to some degree. Yet these ungrateful simpletons whose pride outweighs their intellect won't even give me a small wave hello. They won't even look at me unless it's with disgust; their eyes narrowing in on me as one would a piece of moldy trash that needs to be discarded and put out of sight. Burned to ash.

But, I have one friend.

He won't tell me his name but hearing his voice soothes me. The deep intervals echoing in my mind like hallow bells and the words he speaks lingering in my mind like poison. Whether an illusion developed by my mind or a truly special being I can't decide, but I'm sort of embarrassed to admit that I, well…that I have a sort of attraction to the one I call the Voice.

He always chuckles when I call him this, the sound like music to my ears and never failing to make me smile. I've told him of my classmate's remarks and their torment—how even the adults ignore me now. The Voice is a very patient listener. Never once interrupting me as I talk to him and always motivating me to move forward on really bad days. But, lately his whispers have become different. Telling me of unsavory methods to extract revenge on the souls who do torment me.

Where to strike, where to bite, and how to dispose of the leftovers when I'm done. At first I was appalled, but now they sound…enticing. I wonder if the human heart will still beat if it's ripped out of the person's chest. How long a person will survive being amputated before giving into unconsciousness. If the blood that runs through their veins is as warm as my own. Could a person actually get away with such things? And how long would it take before they're caught?

Humming in thought I look at the butterfly knife in my hands. The item a gift unto me I believe, as I had found it lying in the ditch on the way home from school the other day. Tossed away just as I've been and nearly buried in the muck. Gripping the cold metal tightly I bring up the blade to look at it gleam in the fluorescent lighting, the maroon liquid that slides down it like syrup looking, in a twisted way, beautiful. With a gentle smile I wipe the blade clean on a napkin and settle back on my couch, turning my gaze over my foster father's dull ones.

"See? Isn't this nice?" I ask, picking up the remote and turning on the TV, "No yelling, no drinking, and some nice sitcoms playing on the telly."

Stretching upwards I turn my gaze over the couch to the kitchen where my foster mother sits at the table, her head laying on the wooden surface and her arms sprawled out before her—her abdomen's contents littering the floor underneath as red drips into the puddle under her feet. I tsk and turn back to my foster father, my eyes noting the slash and stab marks on his upper chest. His own fluids leaking out and onto the chair where scratches left from his fingers are embedded on the arm rests.

"You both should be ashamed of yourselves. Ruining perfectly good furniture." I let out a low chuckle. "Ah, it's so nice to have some peace and quiet in the house."

My eyes drift to the snow falling outside, the storm hiding any proof of what I'd done. The bodies will of course have to be disposed of quickly before the sickly sweet stench of decay starts to rise, but the unfinished basement would prove to be a good place to store them—at least until my mission is done.

I gaze back down at the knife, rubbing a thumb over the design on its side. "What should I do next?" I ask out loud.

An uneasy tension engulfs my house after I speak, but slowly I hear the Voice say, "Why you practice on another of course."

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><p>I was lucky enough to have fallen into the hands of a wealthy couple, as people often reminded me. Yes, lucky to become a prodigy that would be pushed into a mold they've already created; caring not if his bones would break and the cries that would be ripped from his lips as they squished him into this frame of being. Forced to learn the skills and ways of the upper class while they pushed me to outshine my classmates with my intellect.<p>

Perhaps though I do owe them some gratitude, as they did feed me, clothe me, and help me obtain a higher way of thinking—but those insults. The lashing they would have the house hands do unto me at the slightest failure, and those absolutely horrid lessons with the violin; an instrument my fingers have been pricked by from their constant movement along the wire strings since I was a small child.

"Natural selection has a hand in everything," they'd tell me after I would be punished, "We saved you from death. If you continue to act foolish then death will naturally come to you."

How very right they were the foolish, foolish little insects.

With a heave I roll my foster father's bagged up body on top of my foster mother's before picking up the shovel with a grunt. Filling in the hole, my mind drifts at what to do next. The house hands have all left for their Christmas break so cleaning up this mess will prove to be nothing more than a slight nuisance. I'll have to deal with them once they come back, but for now this is enough.

I glance at the butterfly knife attached to my belt, the gleaming object held lovingly in the black pouch that once served as a case for my foster mother's sunglasses. There are so many others that should feel it's sting, but who should I pick?

"The one who proves to be the largest threat," the Voice whispers into my ear, sending a shiver up my spine, "The one in orange. I wish for his heart."

My smile falls at this. "His heart? What is wrong with mine?"

The Voice chuckles and phantom-like touches move up my arm in an almost comforting fashion. "I adore your fleeting beating heart. Much more than I would like for it to still. I only wish to have his heart so that I may crush it."

His words relax me, but still a pinch of anxiety remains. I stab the shovel into the ground and wrap my arms around myself, trying to block the chill of the winter night that drifts from the ground. "Do this," the Voice whispers, "And I will use the shadows to give me a physical form."

Interest sparks in my eyes as my heart begins to erratically beat. A physical form? One I can embrace? "Do you promise?" I ask, my voice but a whisper.

His laughter meets my ears, filling me head to toe with such a foreign emotion that I struggle to put a name to it. The emotion so unbound and rapid that words seem pathetic to describe it. "Oh course," the Voice replies, "Give me his heart and I will give you mine. Together we will bring those who've done you wrong to their knees and they will pay for their sins in blood."

My face flushes as images of what the Voice will be flash in my mind; a strange itch beginning along my spine and spreading to my fingertips. I gaze back down at the rumpled patch of dirt, a smile pulling the muscles in my face taunt and making my eyes shine in delight.

Natural selection has always played a hand in people's death. It's what separates the weak from the strong. It determines whose genes will live on to create another generation. Only those able to adapt and survive live on, while those who are lesser become nothing more than memories that will one day fade away. I am not one to stop such a thing, but I wonder if it's possible for me to help it along? To simply become another factor that one must overcome to ensure their survival?

The Voice's dark chuckle rings in my ear as he hears my thoughts, my body moving upstairs to clean up the rest of the bloody mess that my foster parent's left.

I'm anxious to see how this plays out.

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><p><strong>AN: I've been left home alone for the week. My family and boyfriend are out doing social stuff, while I'm busy with work and such. This is why I shouldn't be left alone. My mind starts to think up some pretty disturbing stuff. (perhaps that's good though?)**

**IDK if I'll continue this. Depends on if you guys want to see more. I'm pretty content to just let it collect dust now.**

**Review and tell me if you want me to continue this. **

**Thanks for reading! :D**


	2. The First Victim

**Wow, people actually want me to continue this. Neat-o. :)**

**Warning: This chapter holds some extreme violence.**

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><p>It's a shame really. Kenny wasn't exactly the kindest of boys growing up, but he wasn't the meanest either. Crude yes, but as we grew up I noticed that instead of bullying me like my other peers did he would just turn away, and that hurt worst than the actually beatings themselves. Fists are honest. You know the owner despises you and they come outright with their hate, but someone who is indifferent? Turning away from the violence? I hate them the most.<p>

I flick the butterfly knife open and close, the movement so slow and unsure I have to keep an eye on the blade as to not accidently nick myself. I wish I wasn't limited to my own rules so that I could bury him up to the neck in the dirt. Leaving him there, screaming for someone to help as his body slowly starts to die from hunger and thirst— I ignoring his pleas like he ignored mine and just simply watch as he fades away. But, the Voice wishes for his heart and I will not disappoint the one who holds mine.

The ding of a bell pulls me from my thoughts and my eyes snap to the door of the cheapest liquor store in this piss town. It's a same really that I have to do this, for I must admit his features are quite beautiful; chocolate colored eyes that spark with mischief encased in a strong-jawed face with high cheekbones lightly dusted pink by the cold night's kisses. Jagged blond hair crisscrosses along his ears, dripping down to caress his neck—the rest of his body hidden away in a worn down jacket and pair of jeans. For a moment I allow myself to simply look at him, a toxic combination of lust and envy seeping into my veins. I wonder how loud he'll scream. How his blood will look against his skin.

Blinking the thoughts away my eyes drift down to the bottle of whiskey in his hand, the young man quickly uncorking it before throwing it back. I curl my lips up in disgust.

Such an awful habit he has.

Slowly Kenny begins to shuffle down the street and I hastily buckle my seatbelt and turn on the engine to my departed foster father's Mercedes-Benz E-Class. While the man was as dull as the end of a butter knife, he certainly did have good taste for luxury with practical means. One style I quite find agreeable myself.

I carefully keep an appropriate distance between us as the young man begins to drink his worries away, his cognitive thought ebbing away with each mouthful. It's not long till he starts to stagger, the blond's gruff voice sprouting words of nonsense to a tune as jumbled as his steps. When Kenny almost falls to the ground and starts instead to lean up against a tree I know that the moment to act has come.

Casually, oh so casually I drive up and roll down my window, pulling on a mask of worry. "Kenny?" I call, "Are you alright chap?"

"Ugh, sut up 'ip," he groans, giving me the finger, "ashole."

My fingers clench tighter on the wheel as a cheery smile stretches across my face. That finger will be the first thing I rip away from him.

"Would you like a ride home?" I ask, motioning towards the road, "It's quite cold out tonight. It wouldn't do for you to catch a nasty bit of frostbite out here."

His bright eyes slowly blink, his features twisting as his mind tries to dissect my words to discover their meaning. With a grunt the youth stands up and stumbles over to my car, my heart starting to beat erratically as he enters through the car door. I wait patiently as he situates himself into the soft seat before clearing my throat.

"Buckle up please. I wouldn't want us to accidently get into some trouble."

The young man grunts and places his bottle on the car floor as he fumbles with the seatbelt, and after a few seconds I take it from him to do it myself instead.

"'hanks," he mutters, cozying back up in the leather seat. An actual smile replaces the masked one on my face at the show of manners. Maybe I'll let him keep the finger after all.

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><p>I make sure to place the vile bottle of spirits in one of the cup holders before riding off; not wanting to spill it's contents. I'll need this car for a while longer after all. I'd rather not have that sickly sweet smell accompany me everywhere. The young man won't be too difficult to deal with. While he is indeed taller and holds a bit more of a buffer physic than me, the alcohol in his veins will allow me to have the upper hand. Humming I turn on the radio to a station playing Christmas songs, making the volume only loud enough to fill the silence and nothing more.<p>

If I remember correctly my foster parents were quite…edgy in their bedroom activities. Noisy too. Perhaps I could find something in there to help me hold down the young man. I want to take this as slowly as possible. With my guardians it had to be rushed of course, but now. Now, I have the time to waste. As the red stop sign comes into view I carefully press down the brake, not wanting to rock the car more than necessary. Besides it's not safe to be reckless on icy roads with snow falling like this.

The drive to my home takes no longer than 10 minutes, but still I take precautions. With sharp eyes I scan my neighbors' windows and yards, making sure not a soul can see the other figure in the car as I pull up into the garage. Three other cars sit in the small parking facilities, but I care not to pay attention to them as they are simply a means of being showy at parties and to relatives. Kenny begins to once again stir as I turn off the car. Those beautiful eyes blinking away the sleep as he looks around the concreted room.

"We're we?" he slurs, pressing up against the window.

"At my home," I reply, stepping out of the car and walking around to help the young man out, "I figured it'd be better for you to rest here for the night seeing the state you're in. Here lean on me and hand me that bottle. Yes, that's it. Up the stairs we go."

The butterflies in my gut start to flutter as I feel the muscles he holds hidden under the layer of clothes pressing into me as we start up the stairs. His foul, warm breathe on my neck sending my nerves into overdrive as we stumble up the stairs to the main floor into the kitchen.

"Whoa," Kenny breathes, his head tossing and turning to take in the room, "'Ou live 'ere?"

"For thirteen years and counting," I reply, glancing around the open rooms myself, "It seemed a lot bigger when I was six…"

Some might look one at envy at the entrance of my home. The living room filled with the finest white plush furniture surround a cozy fireplace with a flat screen TV hanging above the flames. The beige walls wrapping around the contents of the living room and kitchen, the dining room in it's own separate room just adjacent from the fireplace. A chandelier flickers with lights like fireflies; adding a surreal glow to the nearly dark room. The carpeted spiral staircase that leads to the upper floors and the overhang that overlooks this area wrapped in white snowflake Christmas lights and green thistle. The inanimate masquerade completed by the giant tree that weeps out sap.

The once bristly branches given the impression of being friendly by the white lights and red thistle that encases it's form; topped of with gold glittering star at the top and silver round ornaments hanging form the trees limbs like earrings. This is just a façade though. Not a single ornament I'd even made ended up on the tree. No sculpture, no picture, not even a damn item I've purchased to add my own flair to the celebrations has been shown where the public eye can see; the things rotting away in a garbage bin possibly some miles away. This place might feel warm but its heart is as cold as ice, just like the season we're in.

With some difficulty I place the bottle of whiskey on the counter before helping him into the living room towards the stairs. Up, up, up we climb. The simple task taking more effort than I originally thought it would and almost making me sprout the curses that sit on the tip of my tongue at the drunk. However, as we make it past the last step and start our journey down the hall towards the guest room I feel my excitement and anxiety grow.

This will be messy and I'm prepared to strip the room of its carpet and furniture to hide what I'm about to do if need be. But the thought that I will finally have a face for the Voice is enough to drive me forward. My heart flutters as he passes my thoughts. I wish to embrace the whisper of the words that help me fall asleep at night.

As soon as I open the door to the guest room the blond stumbles out of my grasp and falls onto the cream colored sheets. Without a word I pull the door shut and pull out a key from my pocket, locking the door from the outside. I won't have to worry about him escaping from the windows.

My foster father bought the best iron bars to block all exit out of them, the man even going so far as the nail the windows shut. The thoughtful man even had the plain pale blue walls reinforced with QuietRock. A type of drywall product that will block even the most extreme of noises from the rest of the house. Insulation had been installed under the thick brown carpet before I was even here; the windows of a special variety that block all and any noise.

It seems that my foster parents were truly creative thinkers—despite how twisted these ideas came to be—as this room is also located at the end of the house. Away from pesky neighbors and the only scenery being the forest out back where only the bravest souls dare to tread. The saying "where no one can hear you scream" takes on a literal meaning in that room. I know. I've been its guinea pig for many, many years.

A smile grows on my face. It's my turn to play now.

Mindlessly I grab the bondage straps from my foster parents closet before heading back downstairs and grabbing: the whiskey, a glass jar, a pair of scissors, and a metal spoon. My eyes drift back up towards the stairs, my entire form quivering at what I'm about to do. A cocktail of pleasure, excitement, and fear erupts in my mind and spreads through my body like fire through a patch of dry wood as I start to head up. For unlike the incident with my guardians, this will be an almost…intimate act. Blind rage won't be the drive in this deed.

I wonder if his heart will still beat if I cut it out of his chest before death.

The walk back to the room seems to have extended in my short absence. Suddenly I can hear even creak the floors make as I step down the long hall. The groaning of the pipes as water and steam pass through them calling out to me as I approach the door. The once façade of warmth from the living room giving way to deep, dark shadows that seem to swallow everything into an otherworldly abyss. Taking a deep breath I try to steady my nerves as I unlock the door and venture inside.

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><p>It seems that the difficult part of this journey is at an end for now. With the manmade poison that he voluntarily swallowed earlier this evening by his own coin still in his bloodstream, it was almost too easy to tie each of his limbs to one of the ends of the painted black, steal bedframe. I had to check and double-check the strap around his forehead, but I cannot risk him moving more than I've already allowed. Blurred over brown eyes gaze up at me curiously and I push back a piece of stray blond hair. My thumb rubs over the butterfly knife in my hands, the other utensils sitting patiently on the bedside table.<p>

It is then that I hear the Voice speak. "You're hesitating."

I nod and place the knife down, picking up the metal spoon. "Just preparing my nerves, love."

His chuckle invades my ears. "I see. The first time is always the messiest. But, the fondest too." A cold chill wraps around my shoulder like a shawl as I look down at the tied up youth, the faint feel of something heavy pressing against my back. "Hurry," the Voice whispers, "I want to see what you can do."

A smile forms on my lips and I grab Kenny harshly in the hallow opening in his cheeks, right above where his lower jaw connects with his skull. Those beautiful brown eyes snap up at me at the action, their surface still hazed over but indubitably sensing me.

"Stay still please," I say, tightening my grip on the spoon.

Hesitantly I move the metal eating utensil towards his left eye, the blond eyeing it for just a second before instinctively trying to turn away—stopped short by the straps holding his head in place. I wonder what it must feel like as I move the cool metal to curve under the lower lid and against the back of the lens. Kenny starts to shout out curses, trying in vain to squirm away. The metal frame clicks with each movement, the leather letting out whines as it's strained.

I can feel the pressure of his muscles in the small area trying to push out the foreign cold, but as I feel the spoon start to curve back I press down on the heel of the utensil; the eye slightly jumping out of the socket with a soft, wet pop. A moment of pause follows suit, the sudden stillness of the youth and the uneasiness that lingers in the air making my own heartbeat start to echo in my ears.

It was only a few seconds though before an ungodly scream is ripped from Kenny's throat. Try as he might to twist and turn he can't, the detached eye lying limply on his cheek; moving slightly with each jerk he tries to make.

"Shhhhh," I soothe, placing down the spoon and pouring the whiskey into the jar, "I know, I know. Just allow me this little bit of selfishness though."

As the jar becomes nearly full with the unaged, clear liquid I place the almost empty bottle back on the table and pick up the scissors; quickly opening and closing them in my hand.

Snip-snip.

The shouts of the young man raise in height, the slur in his words seeming to disappear as the adrenaline flushes through his system. "You son of a bitch!" the blond scream, "You murderer! You damn, shit eating bastard!"

A nasty expression forms on my face at his words and I grab the nerve filled cord that keeps his eye attached to the socket, giving little care as to how I accidently pulled. His own scream immediately swallows his words, his eyelids trying to shut around the now eyeless socket in an effort to instinctively push away the threat to his eye. Humming a holiday tune I place the metal edges against the bloody cord. Red decorates my hands, the liquid dripping down his face and onto the cream hued sheets.

Snip-snip.

His scream turns into a cry of anguish. Salty tears trickle down his right cheek from his remaining eye. Each snip of the scissors making his muscles tense further as I try to cut the bloody cord. However, just like a pair of scissors will sometimes do with a sheet of colored construction paper, they only were able to cut through three-fourths of the way through. A single hair like strand now holding the eye in place. Narrowing my eyes I grab the cord that will remain his eye socket between my forefinger and thumb and hold the other part of the cord in my other hand. I pulled and the eye snapped off.

A short cry is all I hear from the young man—blood shooting from the broken cord and slowly filling up the empty hole. I look down at the eye in my hand with the muscle and nerve cord that remained on it. It was beautiful still—that chocolate colored iris gazing back at me with a permanent look of fear. Carefully I place the eye in the filled jar, the detached organ bouncing around for a bit before settling in the liquid; turning it a slight pink. I take my time to screw on the lid to keep the content securely inside before lifting it up to gaze at it.

"Beautiful…" I breathe, moving my hand to show Kenny the cut off part of himself. His eyes gaze up at me with a whirlwind of emotions: confusion, anger, misery, and utter terror. It sends a chill of disgust and pleasure up my spine. Taking care to place the jar on the bedside table where it wouldn't be knocked over, I pick up the butterfly knife and feel my thoughts start to black out. The passage of my eyesight becoming narrowed and distance, like looking through a tunnel, as I gaze at him. The adrenaline pounds in my ears, and I raise the knife.

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><p>I don't remember much after that. The details of the operation are lost to me but the evidence coats my hands and clothes, the mess dripping down and covering the sheets and mixing in with the carpet. Another organ sits in my hands, warm and wet. I had always pictured a heart to be beautiful as well. It's where our emotions are put into as a culture after all. Where love, passion, and desire are locked up to stay…and, I'm holding it right in the palm of my hands.<p>

Shadows flicker in the corner of my eye, but before I can move they wrap around the once beating organ. Slowly the snake-like whips of a smoke-like density curl into the darkest corner of the room; where even the moon doesn't reach. The gargle of a familiar voice meets my ears and slowly a genuine smile replaces my confused features. I stand up from the bed, the mattress creaking and the bones of the departed youths chest cracking as I do.

The shadows take little time to move before evaporating away, leaving behind a figure that causes the blood to rush to my face at the sight of him. Though there isn't much height to him, the power that he holds shows in his regal stance. Arms folded against his lower back, the black v-cut shirt that encases his torso pulled back to show off the bit of muscle the figure holds. Powerful legs are wrapped in a type of dark fabric I can't quite place, his feet bare and holding nails that looked like talons at the end of his toes.

Eyes like the night stare at me from an angular face, the sockets seeming completely sunken in save for a spark of red that hovers in the space like a flame. Raven colored locks fall around his pointed ears and curl around the neck. Pink lips pull back to reveal a mouth filled to the brim with teeth like a shark, the ends of the delicate muscles pulling up into a smile. I hesitantly take a step forward and the smile on his face grows.

Slowly, his arms uncurl from around his back—the appendages coming forward in a welcoming gesture. It is then that I notice that like his toes, the talons hang off the ends of his fingers as well. A chill wracks up my spine as I gaze at him, instinct telling me to run as sweat starts to perspire from my brow.

"Pip," he calls, the familiar voice calming, "Come to me."

Those words give me enough of a push to run into the waiting arms. Warmth like raw fire grazes across my flesh, and I flinch at the touch before it calms down against my cool skin.

Steadily, I can heart the heart inside his chest beat.

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><p><strong>AN: Here is chapter 2. Yea, I think I went a little overboard but hey. I gave a warning.**

**This'll probably just be something I'll do whenever the moment strikes. It's shorter chapters too so it's easier to write on a whim.**

**Tell me if you me to continue this little tale. Because this could be a stopping point too. A gory one, but an ending.**

**Thanks for reading! :D**


	3. Victims Two and Three

**A/N: Throw a marshmallow into an open flame. In there lies a perfect example of how a human burns.**

**"Just Gold" by ManoPony helped me keep up the mood of the death.**

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><p>I almost believe this all to be a dream—a rather disturbing, enticing dream. Hallowed out eyes gaze at me in the darkness of the hall, the bagged up body thrown over his angular shoulders like a rag doll and a wide smile on his face. My fingers clench the jar with my own prize tightly as I lead him to where the basement lies: down the stairs, into the dining room, and through a small nearly concealed door just behind the china cabinet. As we make it to the small room where the freezer is the Voice hesitates, myself lingering on the doorknob that leads to the unfinished basement.<p>

"Is something wrong?" I ask. The Voice hums and carefully places the bag down, the inside squishing and creaking as it's set on the cold tile floor.

"Is this freezer used often?" he asks, that voice wrapping around my thoughts.

"Not really," I reply, walking to his side and opening the thing, "As you can see we don't use it much. We bought it to keep the fish my foster mother would buy fresh until it was cooked, but…well, we didn't know the cook was allergic."

"Then it sits down here. Sucking up energy and rotting away?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I suppose that's one way to put it."

His smile widens. "Let's put it to use."

Before I can question what he means, the otherworldly being picks up the trash bag and throws it into the open deep-freeze. The mangled corpse hits the icy bottom with a loud thud, the Voice quickly slamming the freezer shut. Those empty eyes gaze back up at me.

"Do you wish to lock it?" he asks. I gaze up at the being, confusion twisting my face.

"Lock it? Whatever for?"

He chuckles. "Why indeed."

Again he laughs and my confusion melts away to content—such a beautiful voice. "Well, I don't have a lock for it," I say, turning my gaze towards the bags of Ice Melt that's used to clear the icy driveway, "But we could pile these on top. They're pretty heavy."

His eyes gaze over to the bags before turning back to me. The Voice nods and pats me on the head. "They'll work I suppose," he breathes, "Come. I believe three will do."

As he brushes past me and grabs two of the 50lb. bags I stutter out, "I-I'm sorry to just suddenly bring this up but…"

Hallowed eyes focus on me, his pale face seeming to shine against the dim lighting. "Yes?" he asks, "Go on. Don't stop now when you've already started with the question."

"What is…your name?"

"My name…" he repeats.

Suddenly, an inhuman sound tears from his throat causing my cognitive thought to flee—giving into the instinctive fight or flight response. The sounds of hell itself seem to engulf my ears with bellowing howls and the grinding of teeth, and I quickly stumble up the stairs. Pure terror sparks through my veins, making my legs move without thought as I head up through the dining room and falling near the stairs leading up.

My feet dig into the carpet, trying to get some leverage before a warm hand grasps my shoulder and harshly turns me around. Those soulless eyes peer into mine and I have to swallow my scream. The heart in my chest beats like a war drum as my lungs start to clench at the sudden need to quickly fill and drain them. Every nerve feels aflame, pinpricks dancing across the flesh. The Voice's dark chuckle meets my ears and slowly I hear him say, "That is why I did not tell you it before, dear Pip."

I can't find the strength to reply. "Relax," he says, the word ending in a hiss, "I will not harm you. It would not due to have you dead."

With a nod, I feel my whole body begin to shake as the dread he created continues to pulse in my mind. Just why did I react so horribly to that? To fear his own name…

"If you still wish for me to have a name, then call me Damien," the dark figure whispers, helping me to my feet, "That is the name given to me by man."

"S-s-someone named you before?" I ask, gripping onto his shoulders tightly to keep myself steady. Damien nods, firming his grip on me.

"A long, long, long time ago…yes."

"Then…wouldn't it do to have a new name? For a new age?"

He chuckles. "I suppose that would make sense, if I didn't know that you're only saying that out of jealousy."

Red flushes my cheeks at his words, a sense of guilt clogging my throat. I downcast my eyes in shame and press my face into his chest; his scent reminding me of earth and ash. Another chuckle echoes in my ear, those clawed hands running gently through my blond hair.

"Do not feel ashamed, dear. It is normal for mortals to feel such a thing over what they adore the most. Besides, you're the only one who's ever brought me a heart."

I raise my eyes to meet his from my hunched position. "One you will give to me?"

Damien pats my head, a smile twisting his features back. "In due time, dear. All in due time. First, we must play."

"Play?" I ask.

"Yes play. Knives, rope, water, electricity, fire, and gasoline. Oh, there is so much we can do." Hallowed eyes seem to widen as they gaze down at me, trapping me in their gaze. "Who should we play with first?"

A smile forms on my features and I rise to my full height, pressing my forehead against his. "Let us decide together, love."

Dark eyes blink in response; the raven-haired youth's smile faltering in a moment of confusion before returning. "I knew I was right about you."

* * *

><p>The cold of this land penetrates through my coat even during the hottest part of the day. As a gush of wind washes over me I tense and tighten my hold on my prize jar hidden in the right pocket of my red fur-lined coat—my casual attire of simple jeans, a shirt, and coat just a hood away from looking like imitation of that childhood story that warns child to be weary of strangers. My teeth chatter as Damien and I walk down the sidewalk; the young man not even wearing shoes as we continue down the paved sidewalk. The cold doesn't seem to affect him, but when I dare to release my hand from it's leather and cotton prison and graze my fingers against his I can feel the chilled temperature of his skin—a sharp difference from the warmth I know he can hold.<p>

His feet don't make a single indent in the snow as we walk—as if he isn't even there. But, I chalk this up to him not being human. After all, he obviously wasn't spit out of some female's vaginal confines. No. If I had to guess his birth was of the shadows and man's heart. Rising from the earth, like undead from the grave. Perhaps this was why the ritual with Kenny had been so specific when it came to needing his heart. The heart of a corrupt man—not truly vile but corrupt.

It's not long till we're in the heart of this small town, surrounded by the buzz of passerbies and the scent of coffee wafts through the chilly air. My anxiety rises as I snap my gaze towards my dear; suddenly fearful of how the others will react to him. However, they don't even seem to take notice of the oddly assembled individual. In my shock, I watch as a small child bonds through him. Damien's body rippling with silver outlines as the child passes through to the other side. The youth's eyes spark fiercer with that flames they hold, a small tip of a red tongue running over his lips as he follows the child's path.

"He's going to turn into a fine lady's man," he comments with a laugh, "Of course, I can't exactly say that others will see him in that light."

I quirk an eyebrow in curiosity at his statement, hoping that he'll explain. However, the raven-haired being merely laughs again—his voice taking on a darker edge. "I hope you won't have any daughters Pip. It would leave you...very distraught."

My confusion grows further at his words, and I turn my gaze towards the child; now with his mother and father at the edge of the sidewalk. It will not be my choice—intentionally—of what gender my children will be. Of course, I suppose that's getting a little ahead of myself. I have to find a female willing to birth them first. But, honestly why would having a little girl be as bad as Damien is making it out to be?

Could his words, perhaps, have a different meaning entirely when it comes to the child we see?

Warm fingers wrap in my hair, gently brushing the locks as the otherworldly being whispers into my ear, "Don't think too hard about it. It was only an observation of time."

Those fingers dip down and intertwine with my gloved one, wrapping my palm in its warmth—the act bringing a smile to my face. "Come, come, come," he says as he pulls me down the concrete path, the excitement clear in his voice, "I think I've spotted our next toys."

A pale curved finger points to a couple walking down the sidewalk on the adjacent path just like us; only closer and with mirrored smiles on my faces. My features begin to droop as I see them, envy curling and awakening in my heart. The male and female are in the similar age range as I—their hair a lush black and their walking stances showing the contrast between their mindset in life.

The male walks hunched, arm almost wrapped around the smaller petite woman. His blue eyes of a darker shade than most, the dull reflection in them greatly differing from the bright smile that lights up his face. The female, on the other hand, walks with a sense of confidence. Her back straight and her hand covering her partners as her plump lips move rapidly as she speaks. I recognize the two immediately: Stan and Wendy. They're the infamous couple of this small town—though, more for their multiple makeups than actual infatuation with each other.

"Ah, so you do know them," Damien states, bringing my attention back to him, "That explains their choice of conversation, huh?"

Shocked, I turn my gaze back to the two—not surprised to see their expression twisted in mirth and slightly cruel as they gaze back. Their shoulders shake with contained laughter and without another glance the two head down the street. I clench my fists as my insides become inflamed as the rage bubbles over inside. Putting on a mask of a smile, I turn back to my dear; looking deep into those alluring eyes.

"What are they saying?" I ask.

His face falls. "I'd rather not repeat such words."

Something inside of my twists and I nod at his words. "I see. Let's play with them, love. I have the perfect idea in mind."

Damien lets out a dark chuckle in reply, and without another word we head back down the street towards my home.

* * *

><p>In all reality, I'm not really that useful when it comes to my intelligence. Yes I can solve math problems, figure out chemical equations, and even recite the entire poem "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost—along with other pieces of literature—, but this isn't useful. Not here. Here in this town the knowledge of sports, mechanic works, and just overall blue collar skills are deemed more important than my vast vocabulary. However, there is one piece of knowledge that I hold that I suppose can come into play here.<p>

I think of the bigger picture. I know that if I'm not careful the police will be summoned to deal with what I'm about to do. It must be done carefully and with precision. I will give this town an event that will remain fresh in their mind for years to come. I will tear at their hearts like they tore at mine.

With beady eyes I glance at the vast arrangement of tools in our personal car shops room. Each tool has its own spot, a white outline of it imprinted on the blue colored board to help the user to find it's place.

"What are you thinking?" Damien whispers in my ear, his arms wrapping around my neck; chest pressed flushed against my back.

A cruel smile forms on my lips. "Stan has often had problems with that prized car of his," I patiently explain, "It's infamous for the romps that occur in the back of it in the secluded area by the railroad tracks, and for how it's door latches are problematic."

I let out a chuckle, lifting a hand to caress the pale face on my shoulder; slightly turning my gaze to connect with his. "Oh, his doors CAN be opened, but only after some struggling for a few long minutes."

The handsome otherworldly being smiles at my words and I shiver as warm breath hits my neck. "Are we going to push it on the railroad tracks?"

I shake my head. "Oh, no, no, no. That'd be too much effort. Not enough pay off. You understand, love?"

My gaze falls back on the tools and I reach out to grab the steel enforced cutting blades. I bring the blade up to look at it in the dim light. "Oh, no. I wish to see them burn."

* * *

><p>People often think that I don't know my way around this town, but many times during my younger days—when the children didn't worry about consequences of their actions—I would be brought out to the forest and often left. Having to find my way back home, this allowing me to map out even the oddest areas of the small town. Sometimes I was forced to go to the forest, sometimes I was tricked, but the end result was always the same.<p>

Left alone in the forest's deep, dark, cold hold.

The worst though was during my 9th grade year. I had been promised friendship, but ended up in ropes instead.

For whatever reason I was chosen for a bit of…well, what they called fun. They tied me up, the rope biting harshly into my clothes and rubbing the skin on my wrists raw. They had gagged me. Shoved one of their wool socks into the screaming jaws of my mouth before tying another piece of rope around my head. I nearly chocked—the feeling of suffocation, yet not actually doing so forever imprinted in my mind. I don't really recall who it was, as the panic, the dark, and sudden change of it all didn't allow me time to see my attackers. I was dropped on the ground. That icy cold of the snow was slowly piled on top of me.

Thunk…shfffff…

The same sounds continued as I struggled, my body having started to shake and become numb from the chill at this point. It was only when they reached my shoulders through that I realized what they had been doing.

They were burying me.

Thunk…shfffff…

I hate the snow now.

It was only by a sere miracle that some bright headlights from a pickup truck stopped them. It had been the cops, out on patrol. I had felt relieved when I noticed the badge, but when I was returned home—the rope gone but the chill remaining—my foster parents had not been happy with my disappearance. I was to be punished. They're only kindness a new pair of clothes and a bowl of hot soup before I was shut away in the farthest room of the house—where no one could hear me cry.

I've never liked the cold, but it was only after this that my feelings for it turned to hate. That was when I meet the Voice.

Shaking my head I clear away the memory—unable to label it as horrid or as my first sign of hope. I grip the wire cutters tightly in my leather-gloved hand; the interior of the small bit of clothing lined with rabbit fur. Black apparel covers me from head to toe. A black hoodie covering my torso while baggy snow pants protect my legs; the ends tucked into my foster father's outdoor boots. Even my face is covered from the dreaded cold; confided in a ski mask.

Damien walks beside me as we tread across the packed snow, his body still covered by the same material that appeared with him and his feet still bare. As we reach the clearing where the trees begin to thin I grab his wrist. The sudden movement catches him off guard and as those eyes are narrowed in my direction I shake my head.

"We have to wait for the car to start moving," I say, "Otherwise their attention won't be diverted enough for us to move."

One of his eyebrows quirks in confusion. "But, don't we want the car to stay in place?"

A small smile forms on my lips at his words, but before I can explain the car begins to rock. Back and forth like an oversized rocking chair, the metal and rubber of the vehicle squeaking from the movements. Turning my gaze back to the car I steadily see the windows become covered in a fog, two shadowed naked bodies intertwined inside as lips travel sinfully across exposed flesh.

Damien lets out a snicker. "Oh, I see. Looks like fun."

I nod and pat my zipper pockets where my prized jar and the closed butterfly knife lie; the inanimate objects giving me a bit of courage as I start to walk across the snow and onto the asphalt. The two figures don't even notice me as I come closer, the ice crunching under the shoes. Muffled moans meet my ears I a draw close and hunch down to keep out of sight.

The car rocks back and forth in a steady rhythm as I duck under it, pulling out the mini flashlight necklace I made for this occasion. With a click the object illuminates a small area of the underbelly of this beast and I smile wider when I recognize the gas line. Luck must be on my side. Opening the wire cutters I drag the edge of one of the blades over the line, just enough cut through to where the gas starts to steady leak.

Slowly, I unzip my right pocket and pull out the firework fuse extension my foster father had bought ahead of time to celebrate the New Year after the 31st. Placing the tiny flashlight between my teeth, I squeeze the fuse between the cut and push it in as far as I can before backing back out from under the car. The rocking inside it increases and I know my time is running short. The train's horn lets out a hallow ring in the distance as I unravel the line across the recently deiced asphalt, signaling it's approach.

Every nerve in my body begins to sing with excitement as I see the trains light come into sight and I hastily hurry over the tracks with the fuse. Snipping off the excess line I pull out the jar with the eye inside. I marvel the color it holds, but hastily shake my head. Business first, small pleasures later. Unscrewing the lid I let the whisky inside trickle out a little to coat the fuse where it meets the metal tracks. As the alcohol coats it I begin to hum a little song and quickly screw the lid back on once I deem enough was used.

The train's light illuminates where I stand and I quickly rush off the tracks and back to the edge of the asphalt. Muffled voices meet my ears and snapping my gaze towards the car I see a spot of fog on the window rubbed away, two sets of eyes staring at me. The train's horn rings out once again through the quiet nice and as it's body comes into view I throw off my hood and pull of the ski mask. I'm not surprised as I feel the cold wrap it's fingers around my neck, biting my nose, and starting to claw at my eyes. But, I refuse to blink as the train runs over the fuse; it's old metal tire causing sparks to fly along the overused tracks. In all of a second the fuse is light and starts to scurry across the ground.

The two figures inside start to move as it approaches, but it's too late—much too late. The spark disappears under the lust filled beast, hitting the gas line with a loud hiss and a new light takes its place. Flames begin to lick at the car's underbelly. Stan and Wendy scream from within—the sound like music to my ears. The fire quickly grows, roasting the outside of the car and slowly creeping into it's interior. The screams of fear instantly turn into cries of anguish, and I reveal in them.

You see, cars do not simply explode like the movies would have you to believe—not usually. Rather they burn. Cooking everything from the outside in, until everything is burnt black.

For minutes this goes on, the flames reaching out like flaying arms in search of relief. I hear the car doors click as something struggles against them, but the metal has already started to black and melt. I hope they've enjoyed at least the little bit of fun I allow them to have in the beginning. As the cries fall silent I head back into the forest, Damien trailing behind me. "Very clever of you. Roasting the two like marshmallows over an open pit, but why are we already leaving?"

"The fire will attract the cops," I reply, careful to not trip on the hidden roots, "We must leave now to not be tied to the scene."

"Ahhhh, I see. It would be rather boring if this stopped now I guess. But, won't your footprints be at the scene?"

I glance over at the handsome being, grasping his hand in mine. "Mine? Oh no. They'll be looking for someone who wears size nine outdoor boots. Basically almost every working man in this town." I let out a chuckle. "Even if they tracked it back to my house, my shoe size won't match it at all."

His smile grows. "I see you're more clever than I originally thought." The youthful body presses to closer to mine as we walk, lips hovering over my ear. "We should try that rocking thing sometime. It looked to be fun."

Desires starts to heat up my face at his suggestion, dying the pigments a flushed pink. "Later, love," I reply, "At a later time."

* * *

><p>The nightly news plays somberly in the background of my living room, Damien and I in the kitchen enjoying an evening meal of steak and potatoes. The otherworldly being laughs as Stan's and Wendy's face are shown on the screen, the reporter talking of how police believed the train caused the spark that made the flames but not quite positive yet. Something flickers alive in my chest as I watch and my lips twist into something warm but cruel.<p>

I once wished for their love and acceptance, but now I find a new obsession taking its place. I will leave my name imprinted on this town.

They may not love me. But, they will remember me.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm surprised by people wanting me to continue this, but I will. Still going to have it down as completed though. Because I'm a stubborn bastard.**

**Also, this is updating faster than Trails of a Gentleman because that one is my baby. I love it. I want it to be as good as it can be. Plus, it's like 5,000+ words for each chapter while these little ones are just kind of spat out from me staying up way too late. The deaths take up all over the description so it's super, super easy. Plus, I'm just better with madness and such. Romance is hard as hell.**

**Also, I apologize if Damien doesn't seem as 'evil' as he should be. He is. You've just been seduced. Congrats.**


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